Oliver sighed and uncrossed his legs.
Frankly, if he were honest with himself, he would admit it wasn’t really Fitzsimmons who had set him on his ear. It was that lackwit, Christopher Sharrington, who annoyed him no end.
Sharrington’s insistence on getting the prize won over the gaming table was becoming annoying. If the man had any sense of his own proper place in the world, he would forget about it. The man’s impertinence was beyond the pale; his accusations at the Oakland’s fete ridiculous.
Some had paid attention that evening, however, for a few men had snubbed him openly over port and cigars. The memory burned. Really, the local gentry were too tiresome.
He, Lord Oliver Candel, was the local representative of the Candel Company. He, Lord Oliver Candel, was a prominent member of Bristol’s Society of Merchant Venturers. He, Lord Oliver Candel, was the sole heir to one of Britain’s finer families.
Sharrington, that imbecile, that upstart, that man of little consequence, had become a problem. Surely the man had an Achilles heel.
And Oliver would wager his right arm it had something to do with the urchins the man had brazenly shepherded from this very haberdashery.
Candel’s eyes narrowed menacingly. Sharrington would soon find out he was not a man to be crossed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the carriage on the way home from church, Josceline and Christopher decided the best day to call on Oliver Candel was Wednesday. Mid-week, when memories of the scene at Oakland Grange would still be fresh but not so fresh as to sting overly much.
Josceline knew she needed to look her best for the visit. Lord Candel was a dandy, one for whom fashion played a central role.
She brushed her brown walking dress and dabbed at several muddy spots on the hem. She rinsed out her yellow shawl and carefully hung it to dry outside on the wash line behind the kitchen. Her newest shift she washed in the privacy of her room, letting it dry before the fire there. Her slippers were more of a challenge however she managed to scrape off the mud then re-pinned the satin roses on them to hide the stains.
Finally, Wednesday arrived.
As she dressed that morning, she summoned her courage. True, she had spoken bravely to Christopher but who knew to what lengths Candel would go to best Christopher? A worrisome thought for the man was untrustworthy and selfish.
* * *
The morning fog hung thick. Between that and the muddy road, the carriage was slowed so much the usual hour’s ride into Bristol stretched almost into two.
They journeyed in companionable silence.
Josceline sat primly, twisting her handkerchief over and over until it was nothing more than a crumpled little mass. She regarded Christopher covertly from the corner of her eyes. He obviously chafed at the delay. He checked and re-checked his pocket watch constantly then frowned at her when she started tapping her foot.
As they crested the hill and followed the road leading down into the area of Bristol known as Redcliff and the harbor, an interested Josceline leaned forward to peer out the window. This was to be the epicenter of their as yet unnamed shipping enterprise.
The river bed was a jumble of ships, aground on the mud. Masts tilted crazily, flags fluttered in the breeze, and gulls drifted lazily overhead. A chaotic array of buildings and warehouses lined the stone jetties. A narrow sliver of silver threaded its way through the beached ships. The Avon River had shrunk almost to nothing.
“Where is the water?” she exclaimed. “The ships are all lying in the mud.”
“The river rises and falls with the tide.”
“It does look silly. The ships look like wallowing sows in a pigpen.”
Her droll observation drew forward a guffaw.
“Why yes, I suppose so. However, Bristol is in a convenient location and the local merchants make it work. They build their ships stronger so the hulls can withstand the weight when the tide ebbs. There’s talk of damming the river to build a floating harbor to accommodate more ships. That notion is why I decided to make this my home. The townspeople are forward thinking for they know if they do not change the harbor, captains will go elsewhere to dock.”
They pulled up outside a large warehouse, a two story structure freshly painted and in good repair that stretched back against the cliffs. A large, red lettered sign hung over the large double warehouse doors: “The Candel Company”. Off to one side, a smaller door overhung with a red and white striped awning led into what appeared to be an office.
On the quay in front of the Candel warehouse was a haphazard stack of cargo: wooden boxes and crates of varying sizes, leaking barrels, and bales of what appeared to be leather but on closer inspection looked to be dried leaves. Tobacco, Josceline surmised.
A motley crew of men moved the goods inside the warehouse, overseen by an officious looking man with his sleeves rolled up. Intent on his task, he paid them no mind when Christopher and Josceline approached him to ask for Lord Candel. Head down, lips moving silently as he read the bill of lading, he pointed to the office.
They knocked on the door to have it opened by a rotund, bespectacled man who, by virtue of his bulk, blocked their way quite neatly.
“May I help you?” he wheezed. He regarded them over the top of the spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.
“We are here to see Lord Oliver Candel. Is he in?”
Christopher’s booming voice sent the clerk stumbling backwards.
“Why, er, why, yes, I do think so.”
“Splendid.” With a flourish, Christopher handed the clerk his card. “Tell Lord Candel I am here to discuss a matter of extreme interest to the Candel Company. It’s regarding a new trade route being opened up.”
Josceline darted a quick glance towards him. New trade route? Could it be true or was it merely a ploy to gain audience with Candel?
While the hapless clerk looked down at the card, Christopher laid his hand on Josceline’s where it curved around his elbow and maneuvered her so that they both shoved past the man.
“Stop,” the clerk shrilled. “Wait here.” He glared at them then shuffled off.
The little office seemed suddenly bare without him. And bare it was – a tall stool nestled beneath a massive plank table; floor to ceiling cabinets lined the wall opposite.
Nothing softened the place, Josceline noted. No pictures, no maps, nothing on the walls; the wooden floor uncovered and scarred. Perhaps because it didn’t do to show one’s success. Or, perhaps the Candel Company didn’t wish to make things too comfortable for their associates.
If it were the latter, they had succeeded admirably. Something hard, a pebble or possibly a nail head, pressed through the thin sole of one slipper. She shifted from foot to foot trying to find a comfortable stance.
The seconds crept by and turned into minutes. She gripped her reticule. What if Lord Candel refused to see them?
“I still think it would have been the proper thing to do to send our cards to the Candel Company before our actual arrival,” Josceline grumbled. “We are being made to wait.”
“He shall receive us,” Christopher replied confidently. “He fancies himself a man of business.”
His confident air bolstered her courage.
She loosened her grip on the reticule and sniffed the air. The scents were sweet, foreign to her, yet brought to mind sun-soaked fields and fragrant breezes.
“Rum, tobacco, sugar cane.” Christopher smiled and his eyes crinkled in that way she loved.
Her knees turned wobbly. Concentrate, she sternly warned herself.
Now is not the time for wobbly knees and dotty thoughts about the handsome man at your side. Your husband.
She sucked in another deep breath and straightened her shoulders, maintaining her ramrod stance until thankfully, another moment later, the clerk returned.
“His lordship will see you.” He pointed to a dark hallway leading to the rear. “Through there.”
“I thank you, my good man.” Christopher pressed a coin into the
man’s fleshy palm.
With Christopher holding firm on Josceline’s elbow, they made their way through the dim hall to find it ended in a closed door. He banged on it with such force the door rattled in its hinges.
“You may enter,” Candel’s hated voice floated through the air. “But do promise me next time you shall not take out your frustrations on my door.”
Christopher unlatched the door and positioned Josceline before him.
“After you,” he muttered to her. “He shall be surprised to see you with me. The element of surprise, I think, shall be to our benefit.” He winked at her.
Together they stepped into Candel’s office.
Surprise rippled through Josceline at the opulent display before them, so different from the stark room they had just left.
A number of thick, jewel toned wool carpets lay on the floor, some overlapping. Rich tapestries, exotic woven hangings and maps swathed these walls – the obvious fruits of the sea trading business. Candles sputtered in several intricately wrought wall sconces. Candel himself sat behind a richly carved, ornate teakwood desk on top of which stood a massive brass candelabra. Even at this hour of the morning, and with every candle ablaze, the room was dark - only two small windows let in the light and they were too high to be very effective.
A lair. That’s what it reminded Josceline of – the lair of a dangerous beast. They must be on their guard here.
“Oh my, I see it is the daughter of the much maligned Duke of Cranston come to pay me a visit.”
Candel’s voice irritated her. Did the man speak in anything other than sneering tones?
“Lord Candel,” Josceline replied coolly, inclining her head. She wouldn’t allow his insolent manner to irk her.
She moved forward enough to allow Christopher to stand beside her. The light touch of his hand on her lower back soothed her and she welcomed his quiet strength.
“I warn you, Candel.” Christopher’s voice cut through the room like the keen blade of a saber. “Do not seek to insult my wife or you shall pay the consequences.”
“You don’t frighten me,” Candel said, pointing to Christopher with a languid finger. He lolled back in his chair. “Why are you here? Your ploy about the new trading route was too transparent for words, Sharrington. Don’t tell me you mean to again bring up that tiresome nonsense of the wager.”
“No, he is not to bring it up for I shall.” Josceline’s voice was icy. “A true gentleman honors his wager. You, I fear, are no gentleman. However, if you would kindly hand over the deed won fairly by my husband, you may regain your good name.”
Candel sat up and slammed his fist on his desk. “I say desist in your accusations.”
Josceline shrugged. “I would imagine your father would be interested to hear of your escapades even here, far from London. Was it not he,” she added slyly, “who banished you from London? Or at least that is the tittle tattle on Lord Oliver Candel.” She glanced up at Christopher, a little smile playing on her lips. “Such an amusing tale, my love, shall I recant it for you?”
“Enough,” Candel roared, face crimson red and eyes bulging. He leapt to his feet. “Enough.”
“If you hand me the deed to the “Bessie”, you shall be rid of us,” Christopher interjected calmly. “And your father shall not be the wiser.”
“Your threats do not frighten me. Who shall my father believe? His son and heir, or the daughter of a decrepit duke?” He locked his eyes on Josceline’s, ignoring Christopher completely.
“Oh,” she gasped. His deliberate snub of Christopher stung her. She could only imagine the pain Christopher felt.
“Lady Woodsby,” he taunted, “do you wonder why I do not include your husband? I’ll tell you why.” Propping his fists on his desk, he leaned forward. “I’ve engaged a Bow Street runner and done a bit of investigating. Enough to know your husband hides something from you. He is not who he seems to be. And those disgusting urchins? Bought to play some part. Sharrington has no son. I don’t know the whole of it, but be assured I shall not rest until I do. And I would be glad to share it with you if you would be willing to share with me.” He dropped a rude gaze to her bosom in clear implication.
Josceline blushed. The impertinence. A wave of dislike, nay, hate, rolled through her. Now his attack included her as well.
“Candel. The deed. I demand it of you,” snarled Christopher.
Candel inspected his finger nails. “Oh, so tiresome. No.”
“Come, Candel, the deed is here. Where else would it be. It is a ship, this is your warehouse. It only stands to reason you would keep it here along with all the papers of the ships of the Candel Company.”
“Deeds?” Candel’s eyes darted behind Josceline back to Christopher then back behind Josceline again. “You shan’t find them here.”
Christopher dropped his hand from Josceline’s back and stood, chest heaving so hard he found it difficult to catch his breath. At this moment, he was powerless against the wretch. Worse, Josceline had seen him fail. Not unexpected but her sweet courage had led him to believe perhaps, perhaps, Candel would acquiesce and hand over the Bessie’s papers.
“Are you quite finished? If you don’t mind, I have correspondence to tend to.” Candel dropped to his chair and shuffled the pile of papers before him. He picked up a quill and, dipping it in the ink well, began to write. All that could be seen was the top of his bent head.
In the ensuing silence, the quill scratched, the papers rustled, his chair creaked as he shifted.
He ignored them totally, fumed Christopher. Shamelessly. With the air of entitlement that comes only from the high born.
Josceline tugged at his sleeve and when he turned to look at her, she inclined her head in the direction of the door. She wanted them to leave. Like cowards.
A spurt of rage lent strength to Christopher and he lunged forward, grabbing Candel by the collar to pull him up. The quill went flying, spattering ink across the desk top and the sheaf of papers fluttered to the ground.
“This isn’t over,” warned Christopher, jerking Candel’s collar. The man’s head bobbed back and forth with the force of Christopher’s grip.
The man’s hate filled gaze flicked over his face. “You do not frighten me, Sharrington,” he jeered. “For what is there to fear from a man who hides behind a woman’s skirts?”
At this very instant, Christopher felt keenly the knife blade hidden in his boot. It weighed heavily against his ankle.
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to whip it out and hold it against Candel’s neck.
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see the thin red line of blood welling over the blade as he began to apply pressure.
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to hear the man’s dying gasps, to see his bulging eyes as the knife cut further into his throat.
But he would not.
Josceline was here with him. A proper lady should not be witness to such vulgar doings. Reluctantly, he dropped his hands and stepped back. Sweat dripped down his forehead; he swiped it away.
“Come,” he said curtly, gesturing to Josceline. “There is nothing for us here.”
The glance she gave him was searching, penetrating, as if she knew very well what he had been thinking.
He gave her a wry look then took her hand and tucked it into its familiar place on his elbow.
Arm in arm they strolled from the office, to all appearances content and carefree as if the disappointing interview with Oliver Candel had never happened.
As they strolled down the dim hall, one thing niggled at Christopher.
My love. He had distinctly heard her call him my love. Did she mean it? Or had it merely been part of the charade?
* * *
Christopher handed Josceline into the carriage and swung himself in behind her. Before she had a chance to settle herself fully, he wriggled himself in beside her. She was about to chastise him until he laid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
&
nbsp; “We failed,” she whispered, leaning her head into his welcoming chest. His warmth penetrated her cheek, she smelled his scent of leather and citrus, heard the breath hissing in his lungs. Safe. Safe here, with him. The carriage jostled then they clip clopped away. Away, thankfully, from that wretched man.
“Did we?” Humor tinged his voice and she lifted her head to look at him. His face was bland, indeed, almost content. The horrid interview didn’t appear to have disturbed him in the least.
“Did we not? We do not have the deed. You were right when you said Lord Candel would not give it to us.”
“True, but now I know where it is. His eyes gave it away. It’s in the roll top desk beside the door. Where, I would wager, the rest of the important documents are kept. Besides, we saw the warehouse and the layout of his office. So did we fail? No, I think not. You, kitten, were correct.” He tilted her face and kissed the tip of her nose. “It was best to meet him again.”
“How do you propose to get it?” she asked, puzzled at his insouciant manner. “He refuses to give it to you.”
“Ah, now that is a very good question. To which I have a very good answer.” He tapped her lightly on her chin. “With Philip’s help.”
“Philip’s help,” she echoed stupidly. Whatever did he mean? She pulled away to sit upright.
“Yes. I shall bring him back here with me at night, when there is no one in the warehouse. He’s small enough to fit through one of the office windows. Once he is inside, I shall get him to open the door for me.”
“What if the door is locked? What if there is a night watchman? What if he falls from the window and hurts himself? What if he is frightened of the dark?” Questions tumbled pell-mell off her tongue.
He chuckled. “Do you always worry so?”
“That is not worry,” she replied loftily. “I am merely airing my concerns.”
Her Proper Scoundrel Page 20
